


To Survive is not To Live, and Steve knows that

by Messofabookreader



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Domestic Avengers, Fluff and Angst, How Do I Tag, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, not actually angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:28:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27815326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Messofabookreader/pseuds/Messofabookreader
Summary: It had started as something platonic, a comfort in the face of bad memories and scars that never actually left.Steve didn’t know when it turned into something fragile.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov
Kudos: 35





	To Survive is not To Live, and Steve knows that

**Author's Note:**

> I've been reading a lot of marvel recently and needed a way to vent the angst i always feel when reading fanfiction

It had started as something platonic, a comfort in the face of bad memories and scars that never actually left. 

A mission would go wrong and Steve would hesitate outside of Bucky’s door, hand held up to knock when it would open silently and he’d walk in. They never said a word at first, the late-night to peaceful to shatter. Bucky would slip into bed and lift the covers, and at that moment, it didn’t matter that they were two overly muscled men in a bed fit for one normal-sized one. They were together, and that’s all that mattered. 

After a particularly bad one, civilians too late to be rescued alive dragged out of the rubble, a child left without a mother and a father, Steve found their spooning turning into something more. Kisses feathered over his crown, down his neck, washing away the pain of the day. He turned so they were facing each other, the light from Bucky’s widow glinting in his eye. Still, they said nothing as their touches turned more urgent and the lost lives faded (temporarily, of course, they never truly went away) but at that moment, Steve couldn’t find it in himself to care. 

The team didn’t know. How could they when Steve escaped in the early morning light? He knew Bucky was a light sleeper, he probably woke when Steve escaped from the warmth of the covers (like a coward), but he didn’t say anything. (why didn’t he say anything). 

Natasha probably knew. There was too much of a bond, another unspoken string that bound them together tighter than with the other members of the team. He knew she saw the way his eyes inevitably sought out the only person who understood. Natasha went through things (really fucked up things) but it wasn’t the same. Bucky fought in the war. Bucky knew what it was like. He woke up 70 years in the future just as much as Steve did, never mind that he never when to sleep and he never aged (Steve would think about that when he was old and grey and Bucky was still young and vibrant).

They talked for the first time after a mission that hadn’t actually gone horribly wrong, and the emptiness Steve sometimes felt was less heavy on his heart. 

Bucky’s hair was on his pillow, his eyes half-closed as he looked up at Steve, who sat propped on his elbows. He looked like an avenging angel, sated on the blood of his enemies, and it wasn’t fair to Steve who had to see it with his mortal eyes.

“Buck,” Steve began, and Bucky hummed, low in his throat, half-smiling a smile that only emerged in the confines of his room. (Or was it their room because recently Steve was spending more time here than anywhere else)

“Buck, what are we doing?”

Bucky blinked up at him. He reached up, carding his hand through the short bristles Steve still like to wear even though their army days were long past finished. 

“Surviving,” he said. “Breathing,” here he paused, and a grin shot across his face “Fucking.”

Steve let out a huff and laid down, back tucked against the curve of Bucky’s side. He placed still-cold toes on Bucky’s calves as punishment for his jokes. 

“That’s not what I meant,” he murmured. But then he let it go because if Bucky was actually joking and relaxed, Steve wouldn’t ruin that for him. 

Steve didn’t know when it turned into something fragile. Perhaps when his clothes were on Bucky’s floor and his heart was in Bucky’s hands. There wasn’t a moment where he was content easing the pains of being a hero and the next realized he was head over heels in love. It was a gradual thing, a tiny flicker of a spark that grew and grew and grew and Steve didn’t know when it would stop. 

There was his smile, that crinkled his eyes, and the way parts of his personality peeked through that Steve hadn’t seen since he was asthmatic. Maybe it was when Steve realized that he had lived 70 years and then some without the man, and the thought of leaving him again sent Steve into a spiral that ended in Bucky’s arms. 

It didn’t affect him at first, it didn’t, and Steve was content to sleep away the nightmares sated and warm. He understood the perils of hero work, so he wasn’t out of his mind sick with worry whenever he couldn’t see Bucky (only a little bit). He didn’t let himself get distracted when he heard a shout and a thunk that only meant pain when fighting a villain, or he’d be the one hurt, but it didn’t stop his heart dropping from his chest down to the floor where it was stopped on by fear. 

But Steve noticed the way Bucky fought with abandon and fury, sacrificing his flesh in order to stop his opponent. And when they crawled together that night (or morning, mission often ran long) he was careful when he plastered himself against Bucky. 

The breaking point came when Bucky threw himself out of the window in pursuit of a nasty man with an inferiority complex and a jetpack. He feels their bond start to crack. Steve stumbled over to the broken glass, uncaring that his palm was cut when he fell against the window frame. His shout of disbelief caught in his throat as he watched Bucky fall and fall and fall until the jetpack evened out and they crashed on the roof of a building. 

That night Steve turns to Bucky angrily, body tight with tension. “Why?” he grits out. “A you jumped out of a building, Buck. No matter how much super serum they pumped in you, you would not survive.”

“But I did, isn’t that what matters?” And Steve knows Bucky truly believes that, and he doesn’t know what else to say so Bucky can just understand.

“Yes, of course. But that’s not the point. It’s not enough to just survive.” Steve can’t believe he’s saying this but, “There’s more than just getting the bad guy. If you don’t get up after, then it wasn’t worth it.” His voice breaks and he tucks himself more tightly into Bucky’s side. “Not to me.”

Bucky’s quiet after that, his hand stroking Steve’s head. 

It shatters when Steve gets hurt. Concrete from the side of a building lands on his legs, and Steve can hear himself scream as he feels his legs crack. As powerful as he is, the pain renders him unconscious quickly and viciously, despite his regret at not being able to help more. (But he’d pushed the lady out of the way and he could see her wide eyes open as she stared at him, hand over her mouth.) 

He wakes in a sterile room, and the machines beeping and humming are driving a hammer into his skull. He notices a weight on his hand and looks down, head shifting just slightly on his pillow. Another hand, flesh, and blood, not the silver vibranium that makes up for the missing limb, is holding his own hand loosely. Steve can see Bucky’s chest rising and falling, his hair pulled back in a bun that doesn’t quite capture all the strands.

He twitches his fingers, and Bucky’s a light sleeper so he wakes quickly, eyes blinking blurrily. 

“Steve,” Bucky says, voice a little too raw to be calm.

Steve watches Bucky for a moment, and they stare at each other as if the silence from his first nights in Bucky’s room have transferred over here. Then his eyes move on, taking in his broken body. 

His legs are wrapped in casts, and he can see metal poking out. It looks harsh and scary, but for once Steve is glad he woke up in the future. If he’d been broken like this during the war he’d be walking crooked for the rest of his life. He doesn’t know what they did, and he suspects that he still might be a little broken when he fully healed, but it looks like whatever they did is doing something right. He can’t feel the pain of his body stitching itself back together, and now that he thinks about it, he’s a little floaty, a little too out of it too long after waking up. He can’t find it in himself to care though, he doesn’t want to feel his legs right now. 

“Steve,” Bucky says again. “You can’t…you can’t do that. You’ve got to live too.” His voice is breaking and his eyes are watering, and Steve thinks he might care a lot more than he thought he did before he broke his legs. 

The pieces start to come together again, like a jigsaw puzzle that isn’t missing any pieces, when Steve is released from the hospital and he and Bucky lay in each other's arms, soaking up each other's warmth. 

“Buck,” he starts. Pauses, unsure, but Bucky lets him take his time. “How about we live, together.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Don’t we already do that?” he looks around his room, and Steve supposes it their room now, and it has been for a while.

Steve slaps his chest, “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“I know,” and Bucky is somber now, his eyes serious.

Steve reaches up, brushing a strand of hair off his forehead, and tilts his chin up for a kiss. 

“Together,” he says, and he feels whole.


End file.
